some fools will have it
by humanveil
Summary: She will not relent simply because there is nothing else left. Andromeda character study taking place post-DH. Narcissa & Andromeda.


**Characters:** Andromeda, Narcissa.

**Word Count:** 2000

**Tags/Warnings:** Canon Compliant, Character Study, Grief and Messy Feelings

**Summary:** She will not relent simply because there is nothing else left.

**Note:** in response to the edgar allan poe themed prompt _'__**the cask of amontillado:**__ betrayal, grudge, broken trust.'_ title comes from poe's work & i should probably say that while i have written fic of narcissa and andromeda reconnecting post-war, this… is not that. i wanted to try my hand at an andy who is struggling with the concept of family after losing hers, and this was the result. hope you like it!

* * *

"They're going to pardon Malfoy," the boy says. "All of them."

Andromeda hears it across the breakfast table; the lot of them relocated to Grimmauld Place while things are sorted. She looks up, listens, is careful not to make it obvious. It's met with a range of responses: anger from the youngest Weasley boy, silence from the girl beside him. She sees the unease on Molly's face, Arthur's, too; the battle between the desire to argue and the thought that they shouldn't. The rest is indiscernible chatter.

"Look," the boy explains, "Lucius won't get his wand back for ages. And, you know. I wouldn't be alive if Malfoy's mum hadn't lied to Voldemort, so—"

Andromeda snorts, too quick to quiet it. They turn to her at once, curious, uncomfortable, hesitant. She prefers it to the pity. "Sorry," she offers, shifting Teddy in her arms. It's too hard to explain, she thinks, what she knows of her sister.

She doesn't owe it, anyway.

There's a pause, stilted. They don't know how to treat her, Andromeda thinks. Are reminded of too much just from the sight of her: her daughter, her husband, their own children, dear, darling Bellatrix and how she'd met her death. It's been a long time since people were this uncertain around her. It does little but remind Andromeda that she was, once, a _Black._

Harry clears his throat, turning back to his mismatched family. Andromeda listens as he continues with the latest news. She wonders, not for the first time, how this is the Wizarding Wold's saviour.

* * *

She's around when it happens.

Not by choice, of course. It's merely a cruel twist of fate. The Ministry is a wreck, even months after the Battle; the effects of the Dark Lord's rule lasting longer than expected. Things are being shifted, laws rewritten, whole departments shut or terminated as personnel is looked over, discarded, replaced. Three people passing by the foyer is nothing. _Should_ be.

Andromeda doesn't notice them at first, is instead focused on shushing Teddy as he squirms in her arms, disgruntled by the sea of press they'd had to pass to get inside. But Narcissa's voice is one thing she can't forget, and her body reacts when she hears it: head snapping up, eyes scanning, alert. She spots them easily, a sea of blonde hair hard to miss amongst the dark décor, the silver detail of Narcissa's robe catching beneath the bright lights.

Her arm is linked with her husband's, the other hand intertwined with her son's. Andromeda looks to both of them briefly: Lucius far from the man he used to be and the boy precisely what she's seen in the papers. But they're not what catches her eye. It's her sister. Is Narcissa, standing tall and proud between the two of them, an image of elegance even now. _Preparing for battle,_ a voice calls in Andromeda's mind, thinking back to the reporters waiting outside. The inevitable crowd of people pissed at the Malfoys' pardon.

It's just like Narcissa, Andromeda thinks, a bitter, humourless laugh bubbling in her chest, to ignore the disgrace attached to her family name. Merlin knows she's had her practice.

Andromeda watches the three of them move toward the exit; is kept still by things she doesn't want to think about, Teddy cooing for her attention. It's not until they're almost out of sight that Narcissa looks back. That blue eyes catch Andromeda's, the Ministry fading to a muted backdrop as she's faced with her sister for the first time in decades.

She sees Narcissa still: shock and recognition twisting her features before she attempts to hide it. Lucius slows beside her, looking to her face before he follows her line of sight, expression as unreadable as it's always been when he spots Andromeda standing there. He only looks for a second before he turns back to his wife, arm tightening its hold as he says something Andromeda can't make out, and it's not surprising, really, when Narcissa drops her gaze.

The three of them are gone a moment later.

It's not the reunion Andromeda used to imagine. She does not feel the way she's always thought she would. It's ugly, what she feels now: something bitter and hateful, and, yes, jealous. She isn't too proud to admit that, if only to herself. Her grief is something she's learning to live with, but there is still that nasty pain that twists in her chest, still a whisper of the vindictive streak that was bred into her, still the scream pressing at her teeth; the harsh, broken cry asking why _they _get a happy ending when they're the ones who took her own.

A cry comes from the bundle in her arms, shaking her from the trance she's in. Andromeda sighs. Looks down to find Teddy's hair turned blue, his little hands clutching at her collar. She swallows around the thought of her daughter and forces a smile to her face.

"Hush now," she whispers, pressing a kiss to her grandson's head. "We'll be done soon."

* * *

They're in the Prophet the following morning, the cover a photo of a quick exit, flashes of silver-blonde hair and black robes preceded by a split-second shot of clarity: Lucius and Draco behind her sister as she stands proud. Molly passes it to her with a cup of tea and an uneasy gaze, breakfast already sizzling. Andromeda does them both a favour and accepts it with silent thanks.

She sips the tea but doesn't bother with the article; the headline _Ministry Mistake? Malfoy Set Free _enough to give her an idea of what it says. Instead, she watches the image play on a loop, waiting to see her sister. To compare her to what Andromeda remembers: the memory of the girl she'd left behind still fond, despite everything.

Narcissa is older, there's no doubt about that, but she's still the _same. _Pale and cold the way she's always been: icy where Andromeda and Bellatrix burned bright, quiet where they'd been loud. Bellatrix used to tease her, joke that she wasn't actually a Black, call her a bastard across the dinner table until their father had put his foot down. She'd been upset about it, then, too young to really understand what Bellatrix was saying but old enough to catch the tone. Now, Andromeda can't help but wonder if she was ever thankful for it, for the way she can distance herself from the House of Black. Wonders if she'd took the Malfoy name and put their family and every disgrace behind her the way Andromeda had tried to do with Ted. Of course, she's never had the luxury of forgetting entirely; their older sister etched in her own reflection. A curse if she's ever seen one.

"Suppose we'll be hearing about this for weeks," she says, mostly to herself. She can imagine it: the think pieces, the interviews with _trusted sources_, Rita Skeeter's ridiculous take. As if the Ministry would go back on it now that it's done. Not when they're backed by the Boy Who Lived.

Molly looks at her over the pan. "They've a right to be annoyed," she says. "Lucius should have been sent to Azkaban years ago, but…" She sighs. "It was a good thing your sister did."

It's not quite a defence. Andromeda can tell, can see it in the stiffness of Molly's shoulders, the way she can't quite meet her eye. She'd ignored her when Andromeda had first arrived: tired and stressed with no energy to keep resisting the Granger girl's requests that she come and join them. _You could use the support_, she'd said, the closest she'd ever got to mentioning the bags beneath Andromeda's eyes, the way she was struggling to keep up with her grandson. She'd known it would be odd, staying with mostly strangers, people she only knew from Nymphadora's stories, but she was still surprised at Molly's reaction: how she'd find an excuse to leave the room if they were alone, how she wouldn't look at her face, how she'd speak to her through her children. Andromeda understood on some level; knows she's a walking reminder. But Bellatrix had taken her daughter's life before Molly had taken hers, and for that, Andromeda only had thanks to offer.

"You don't have to defend her on my behalf," she says.

It's met with silence, the conversation apparently over. Andromeda turns back to the paper, to her sister's cold face. _A good thing_, she thinks. Good, yes, but _good-hearted_? She doubts it. Narcissa has always been aptly named: pretty and poisonous like the flower, narcissistic and self-serving like the legend. She loves her family, that can't be denied, but Andromeda knows that merely means they're included in her selfish drive to come out on top. Knows, because she'd had a place for Andromeda in it, once. Because the realisation that she'd been banished from it had hurt like nothing else.

There is that laugh again, tickling her throat. Bitter and angry and filled with grief, aching to be let out.

Andromeda sips her tea.

* * *

It's more than a week later when the letter arrives.

Granger passes it to her with a smile and Andromeda arches her brow. She receives few letters these days, most of them accompanied by an official Ministry mark. But this is no Ministry envelope. This is thick, expensive, _pureblood. _She looks to find her name written in a neat cursive, black ink stark against the pale-yellow parchment, and knows, instantly, who's sent it. Doesn't need to see the wax stamped by the Malfoy crest to realise this is a letter from her sister.

She isn't even surprised.

There is a squirming child in her arms, and so Andromeda tucks it away for later. Would prefer the quiet solitude of her room for this, anyway. Some of the others give curious glances, had no doubt seen the _M_ that marked the paper, but she's not in the mood for giving answers; plays oblivious instead and continues feeding Teddy. What is it to them, really, what Narcissa has to say to her?

She tells herself she's not nervous.

When she does retreat to her room, her grandson safe with Harry, she wastes little time in opening it. The letter is in her hand not a second after the door has shut, her nail ripping the seal and discarding the envelope without care. If her hand trembles when it holds the parchment, Andromeda would never admit it.

_Dear Andromeda, _it starts, and she snorts at the formality. It is a testament, she thinks, to just how much has changed. _I hope this letter finds you well _from the toddler who used to barge into her room uninvited, a delighted cry of _Andy! Andy! Andy! _the only warning she'd get. _I have given our last encounter much thought _from the girl whose hair she used to brush, whose stories she used to read, whose tears she used to wipe away. _In the wake of all that's happened, I thought you might be open to a reconciliation _from the woman who'd spat the word traitor at her when Andromeda had tried to repair the damage. Who called the love of her life filth. Who likely _rejoiced _at his death. No. _No._

She doesn't finish the letter.

Instead, she finds the nearest surface and flips it on its back. Goes searching for a quill and ink and ignores the tightness to her chest, the growing lump in her throat, the burn behind her eyes. When she writes, her penmanship is rushed, messy. Missing the expected _formality_.

_Narcissa —_

_Some things can never be repaired._

_I suggest you stick to pretending I don't exist._

_Andromeda. _

She reads it over and lets slip a shaky exhale. There is nothing left to say, she thinks. Too much damage to be undone. She folds it twice and ties it to a borrowed owl; sends it Narcissa's way.

So what if the ink is smudged with tears.


End file.
